


A Change of Perspective

by followthattardis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Don't say I didn't warn you, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, there's blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthattardis/pseuds/followthattardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes out. Then everything goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adametogankfor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adametogankfor/gifts).



> Step 1: try to write a gift fic  
> Step 2: end up with a hot mess  
> Step 3: realize it’s too late for changes and roll with it
> 
> Happy B-day, N!

**Sam**

 

When Sam comes back from his grocery run, his bike’s tires screeching to a halt on wet asphalt in front of the bunker, it’s already late afternoon. The chill brought in with the rain makes the hairs on his arms stand on end, even despite the physical activity. The nearest store is a mere 15 minute ride from the bunker, but Dean still thinks Sam is crazy for pedaling down the road instead of taking one of the many cars standing idle in their garage.

Of course, Dean wouldn’t choose a bike over a car even if the store was right behind the corner, so Sam ignores the teasing and bikes every time he damn well pleases. Dean had a load of fun at his expense when the whole thing began ( _Nice calves, Lance Armstrong_ ), but like always, eventually he grew tired of it.

Gathering the grocery bags into his arms, Sam shoulders his way through the steel doors and walks down the stairs into the war room.

“I’m home, guys!” he announces. When he doesn’t get a reply, he doesn’t think much of it. The bunker is huge, so if Dean and Cas decided to go to the storage rooms or the garage or the shooting range, they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

Since the bio yoghurts he bought have been marinating in room temperature for much longer than technically allowed, Sam makes a beeline for the kitchen and does a quick work of unpacking the bags, filling the empty spaces in their fridge and pantry. Dean has been cooking a lot lately (if you ask Sam, Cas is to blame for that; he keeps saying he loves everything Dean makes), so they run out of ingredients all the time. These days, their three-person household needs as much flour and sugar as a small baking business.

Before all the purchases are distributed where they belong and the coffee maker indicates the brewing is finished, Sam’s previously damp hair is dry and his clothes don’t show any signs of the light rain that caught him on his way back. He pours fresh coffee into a mug and hums happily as the heat reaches his fingers through the ceramic.

He doesn’t realize anything is wrong until he walks into the library with his laptop tucked under his arm, only to be greeted by a broken lamp and an overturned chair.

He freezes, cold dread creeping up his spine as the alarm bells in his head go off.

Dean or Cas could have broken the lamp by accident, sure. It happens. But they wouldn’t leave it like that. And then there’s the chair, lying on its side a little ways away, as if knocked back.

Sam knows how a room looks post-fight. Exactly like this.

He puts away his coffee and laptop on the nearest table and walks closer, careful not to step on the shards of glass scattered around. In between the pieces, a red stain of dried blood catches his eye. More on instinct than consciously, he reaches for his gun, only to realize he doesn’t have it.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would he bring a gun on a bike ride?

He looks around and grabs the first heavy thing at his fingertips – in this case, a bronze statue of some Pagan God.

“Guys?” he shouts, gripping the statue by the base and swinging it over his shoulder. “You okay?”

The responding silence is deafening.

Sam isn’t usually one to panic, but he has to admit the situation doesn’t look good. The bunker is safe, but it’s not impenetrable. Someone or something could have gotten through, and if Dean and Cas weren’t armed – and Sam knows they weren’t, none of them carries a gun inside – then even some average demon could have—

Sam’s fingers tighten around his makeshift weapon. He circles around the shattered lamp and heads for the library exit, trying to make as little sound as possible. From there, it’s a long row of doors up and down the corridor, and Sam pauses, unsure where to start. He’s just about to turn left when a quiet noise reaches his ears.

A sob.

It comes from the fourth or maybe the fifth door to the right, muffled yet unmistakable through the layer of old wood. Sam swallows and takes a step forward, then another and another until he’s close enough to determine where the sound is coming from.

It’s the fifth door. Dean’s bedroom.

As it turns out, the door isn’t shut, but slightly ajar. Once Sam puts his fingertips against it, it gives way a few centimeters, revealing a slim view of the floor, a bed corner, and a rumpled bedspread lying on top of it.

Sam stands completely still, weighing his options, when he hears Dean’s voice coming from the inside.

“Cas— oh my God.”

He sounds breathless, like somebody has just punched him in the gut and knocked all air out of him.

Then, there’s another sob.

Except from this close, it doesn’t sound as much of a sob, more of a... hiccup?

“It’s not that funny, Dean,” comes Cas’s voice, the pout in it clearly audible.

“It’s fucking hysterical,” Dean wheezes. He’s still struggling to breathe, but now Sam understands why. The asshole is _laughing_.

“Oh,” Sam says, mildly. Since both Dean and Cas are apparently safe and sound, he lowers the statue, suddenly feeling like an idiot.

“I fail to see the comedy value of diaphragm spasms,” Cas says irritably.

“Then you’re missing out.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Come on, Cas, you gotta admit it’s pretty amusing.”

Sam shifts on his feet, reluctant to eavesdrop any more than he already has. The words he overheard have given him a vague idea of what’s going on – poor Cas got the hiccups and Dean is teasing him about it like the jerk he is – but the reason why the library looks like a battleground remains unexplained. That’s why Sam knocks on the door, waits a beat, and then pushes it open the rest of the way.

As soon as the entire room comes into view, Sam regrets not turning back, as well as every decision in his life that led him here. He also entertains the idea of smashing his head with the statue still clutched in his hand. With a bit of luck, it’ll induce some blissful memory loss.

For a long moment he simply looks at Dean and Cas, and they look at him.

“Oh no,” Sam says, feebly.

Cas hiccups, jostling Dean in his lap and causing him to make a noise Sam wants to immediately un-hear.

“The sock rule, man, what the hell,” Dean says, his arm winding tighter around Cas’s neck. He doesn’t seem at all embarrassed about being caught sitting on a dick. Meanwhile Sam is mentally picking spell books that might help him forget this ever happened.

“We didn’t put on a sock,” Cas supplies. “We were… in a hurry.”

“You were, Mr. Lamp Breaker,” Dean smirks.

Ah. There it is.

“You couldn’t have taken two goddamn minutes to clean up the mess you made while trying to get in each other’s pants?” Sam groans. “I thought something bad happened. There was blood, too.”

“I cut myself on a sliver of glass,” Cas explains, letting go of Dean’s hip to show Sam a thin red line running along his index finger. “We were— _hic_!— in the heat of the moment. I’m sorry you were worried, Sam.”

The apologetic note in Cas’s voice sounds genuine, and at any rate, Sam can never stay mad at him for long.

“It’s fine, just— next time, please leave a note or something. I thought… no, you know what, I can’t do this. We’ll talk once you’re done doing… this. Oh my God. I’m leaving.”

Sam stumbles out of the room accompanied by Dean’s laughter, which turns into a moan as soon as another hiccup comes.

Sam walks faster.

 

**Dean and Cas**

  
It doesn’t happen often, but from time to time something will get Cas going and Dean will have no clue what it was.

It’s puzzling, especially since Dean has always been hyperaware of his behavior in that regard. He learned it the hard way very early on, an inevitable side effect of tagging along with his father to dive bars of unsavory reputation. Initially, he hid his burning cheeks, dipping his head low and trying to ignore the lewd comments. Then, he fought back – broke a few noses, a few jaws of men who called him pretty and suggested where he could wrap his lips instead of his beer bottle. And then… maybe he grew too old, or maybe there were more pressing matters to worry about than an occasional leer. It blew over.

Dean didn’t forget it though, and now, after all these years, he can finally use that knowledge to his advantage. He does it on purpose a lot when Cas is around, just to see those blue eyes widen with desire. He’ll let his lips linger on the neck of the bottle, moan too loud around his burger, stretch his arms high over his head so that his shirt rides up on his hips and stomach. All those things that used to expose him to harassment have become a source of delight for both him and Cas. Dean never thought being lusted after could feel so safe and right.

The only problem is that Cas isn’t as predictable as the bar goers were. Sometimes he’ll give in immediately, a quick glimpse of Dean’s skin enough to rev his engine, and other times Dean will hit a brick wall. When Cas is not in the mood, it doesn’t matter how many suggestive moves Dean pulls and how hard he tries to provoke him. Cas won’t budge. He’ll smile and kiss Dean’s hair and say _I love you_ , and then keep reading his book or texting Claire or doing whatever it was Dean tried to interrupt.

It’s kind of infuriating. Kind of endearing.

And then there are times like this, when Dean didn’t mean to start anything, and yet the glint in Cas’s eye says he’s about to be ravished.

“Cas?” he says, voice laced with uncertainty. Really, though, he hasn’t done anything accidentally sexy… has he? He was just reading. He casts a quick glance around himself, but there’s no drink or food, and he’s wearing his usual two layers. There’s no reason for Cas to be looking at him like _that_.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

Cas leans across the table they’re sitting at, his hand finding its way around Dean’s neck. A surprised “uumpfh” is the only sound Dean utters before Cas’s tongue is in his mouth. It’s not a chaste kiss, and Castiel clearly doesn’t want it to be. Dean gets a little lost in it, but he’s fairly certain they both stood up at some point, because his knees are wobbly and there’s an arm around his waist and his hips crash into a table as Cas pushes him down on it.

“The hell has gotten into you,” he murmurs, grabbing Cas’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Nothing in particular,” Cas says, leaning down to press his mouth into the inviting space above Dean’s clavicle. “I simply had a random moment of realization.”

“What did you realize?”

“That I need to have sex with you.”

Dean barks out a laugh.

“Idiot,” he says fondly.

Cas hums against his neck, his broad hands sliding down Dean’s sides to slip under his thighs. He spreads them wide enough to press himself in between, and they both sigh at the first, albeit clothed contact.

“Again,” Dean pleads, the word lost somewhere in Cas’s hairline.

As they begin a slow grind, it occurs to Dean that taking off or even just unzipping their pants would probably enhance the experience. The position isn’t too comfortable either, and Dean’s back will be chafed from the tabletop before they’re done. He doesn’t interrupt, though. This is good enough, with Cas’s weight braced above him, his light stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin of Dean’s neck. It’s more than enough, actually. Besides, they’ve gotten each other off in worse conditions. They could and probably would come just like this, rutting against each other with clothes still on, except that Cas’s movements grow erratic the closer he gets, and he snaps his hips a little too hard.

They both startle when the lamp standing on the other end of the table plummets to the floor with a loud crash.

“Was that—”

“A lamp,” Cas confirms, frowning at the mess over Dean’s shoulder. “I apologize.”

Dean has no smart response to that, so he snorts and surges up to press his mouth below Cas’s ear, trying to direct his attention back to the mind-numbingly hot action they were just having.

But Cas – Cas is already pulling away with reluctance, leaving the welcoming V of Dean’s legs to walk around the table and take a closer look at the lamp that fell victim to his enthusiasm.

“Cas,” Dean complains, propping himself on his elbows. “Leave the goddamn lamp and get your ass back here.” This is so unfair. Dean wasn’t even horny at first. The stupid angel got him worked up because he felt like it and then left him breathless and cold and very, _very_ hard.

“We should clean this before someone gets hurt.”

“Like who? Sam’s out.”

“He’ll come back.”

“ _Cas_.”

Dean slides off the table and joins Castiel, who has stooped down and is now carefully picking up the biggest pieces of the glass lampshade. Dean grabs his wrist mid-reach and pulls his hand towards his mouth, letting Cas’s fingertips skim over his bottom lip.

“Dean,” Cas warns. It’s a low blow and they both know it.

“What’s that?” Dean asks innocently.

“We can’t leave this here.”

“Sure we can,” Dean murmurs, leaning in closer. His lip begins to tingle under the weight of Cas’s thumb. “Who’s gonna stop us? We’re home.”

The look Castiel gives him is iron-hot, and Dean knows he’s won. Perhaps using that little, four-letter word that means so much to Cas was a dirty move, but he can’t bring himself to regret it when the glass pieces collected in the dip of Cas’s palm drop to the floor and he melts into Dean, tugging him close by the shirt until they both topple backwards.

“You’re awful.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, smiling against Cas’s mouth. The floor isn’t any more comfortable than the table was, but they’re both way past caring about such details. A joined sigh of relief escapes them when their bodies slot together, both still hard despite the interruption, and it’s so easy to start rocking their hips again as if nothing happened. It doesn’t take long for Dean to feel the familiar heat coiling in his stomach, but it’s like somebody doesn’t want him to get off today. Just as he’s about to let go, his eyes drop down to Cas’s right hand.

“Shit, Cas, you’re bleeding!”

“Of course I am,” Castiel replies roughly. “I’m lying in a pool of broken glass.”

Dean scrambles to sit back on his haunches, his own pleasure forgotten, and gently takes Cas’s injured hand in-between his. However desperate to finish he might have been mere moments ago, the sight of blood on Cas’s skin overrides it.

“It’s just a small cut,” Cas says.

Dean stares at it. Cas is right, it’s only a slice. Nothing even remotely life-threatening about it. All it needs is a Band-Aid and some time to heal on its own.

But Dean is sick of seeing Cas covered in blood.

“Sorry,” he whispers. He lifts his weight off of Castiel and helps him stand up, holding onto him a little too tight.

“New rule: no sex on broken glass,” he says sharply.

“Okay,” is Cas’s only reply.

Which is very nice, considering that a smaller person would jump on the opportunity to slap Dean with a triumphant ‘I told you so’. But not Cas; he got hurt because of Dean’s carefree attitude and he won’t say a word of complaint.

Dean shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge that thought.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s just go to the bedroom like normal fucking people.”

Cas nods and gives Dean a lopsided half-smile. As a result of their tumble on the floor, his hair and clothes are a complete disaster, his cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, chest still heaving a little. He looks like a walking and talking definition of the word ‘debauched’, and Dean is a complete mess over him.

“Come on,” he repeats, cupping the side of Cas’s face in his hand. “I don’t— I don’t want you to get hurt on any more glass, but I also really need us to finish what we started two times already, or I’m gonna bust a nut.”

Cas laughs softly and links their fingers, his eyes dropping to Dean’s mouth.

“Lead the way.”

Considering that Dean’s bedroom is not in the immediate vicinity of the library, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that they don’t make it to the door. If you ask Dean, it comes as even less of a surprise that it’s Cas who slams him against the wall about half way down the corridor.

“Cas,” he protests weakly. “We’re so close.”

“Exactly.”

“No, you ass—I mean close to my room. To a bed.”

“Since when do we need a bed?”

“Cas—“

“You didn’t seem to mind before.”

“And you got hurt.”

“It’s only a cut, Dean.”

“Just get in the stupid room so I can sit on you. Fuck.”

As Cas drags him inside and pulls him down on the bed, two things occur to Dean. The first is that he’s never seen two people so desperate to have sex and failing at it so badly. The second is that this whole situation would be awkward as hell with anyone other than Cas. There was enough fumbling and interruptions – not to mention property damage – to effectively kill the mood, and yet here they are, still as hungry and aching for each other as they were when this train wreck started.

Before he knows it, he hears himself say: “Let’s take it slow.”

Cas blinks at him in surprise, and Dean would blink at himself if he could. _Slow_ ? He almost came twice in the last fifteen minutes and now he wants to put it off _again_?

“Are you sure?”

Dean opens his mouth to say no, but what comes out instead is: “Yeah. Let’s make it last.” And then, because he suddenly feels way too vulnerable, he adds: “I liked that lamp. It’d be a shame if it met its untimely end for nothing more than a quick handy.”

Castiel looks like he wants to say something – probably apologize for sending the lamp to the floor, like Dean actually cares – but he thinks better of it. He reaches to open the bedside table, pulls out a bottle of lube and drops it into Dean’s palm, the corner of his mouth twitching in barely contained mirth.

“Very well. Make it last.”

Smug bastard. Dean wishes he had enough willpower to drag this out, so that Cas would change his tune and beg Dean to speed up. Sadly, he doesn’t. He’s too impatient for teasing.

As could be expected, it’s not easy to keep a steady pace with all the build-up they’ve already had. In some unspoken agreement, they resolve to take turns slowing each other down when one of them gets too enthusiastic.

“Dean,” Cas mutters, nosing along his jaw. “You wanted slow.” – And though his body screams at him to keep going, clenching around his fingers, Dean immediately eases up, leaning his weight on Cas’s chest and taking a deep breath before going back to opening himself.

“Hey,” Dean admonishes a while later, when Cas grabs his hips and tries to thrust up. “Hit the brakes.” – And Castiel complies without a word, circling Dean’s waist with his arms and looking up at him with hooded eyes.

Dean has no idea how they managed it, but what started as an impromptu kiss in the library somehow turned into the most lazy, tender, sensual sex they’ve had in a long while.

Then, of course, because they’ve clearly been cursed, Cas gets the hiccups.

Dean isn’t sure if he should be annoyed about yet another disruption (come the _fuck_ on), dying of laughter because of the look of bewilderment on Cas’s face, or moaning his lungs out because of the way each hiccup puts delicious pressure on his prostate.

Eventually he goes for laughter, and once he starts, he can’t stop. His whole chest shakes with it, with how ridiculous this whole afternoon is, with how he’s laughing and moaning at the same time because it’s both hilarious and so, so good.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “I wasn’t drinking or eating. I shouldn’t have— _hic_!”

And now Dean is truly gone, almost in hysterics as he cradles Cas’s confused face and kisses it again and again. He tries to resume the slow grinding movement of their hips, but then Cas hiccups again, and Dean half laughs, half moans, pressing their foreheads together.

“Cas— oh my God.”

“It’s not that funny, Dean,” Cas grumbles against Dean’s lips.

“It’s fucking hysterical.”

Dean isn’t even being a jerk, here; this is genuinely one of the funniest things that’s happened to him recently. Come on, riding a hiccupping angel? Comedy gold.

“I fail to see the comedy value of diaphragm spasms.”

“Then you’re missing out.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Come on, Cas, you gotta admit it’s pretty amusing.”

Though there’s no direct response, the way Castiel’s mouth twitches and his eyes crinkle just so says he’s not really annoyed. Dean kisses the corner of his mouth and runs a hand through his hair, just to make sure Cas knows Dean’s laughing at the situation, not at him. He’s about to say they should check if an orgasm will resolve the problem when there’s a soft knock on the door.

They only have enough time to glance away from each other before Sam is there, his eyes widening as soon as they land on Dean and Cas.

Now, it’s not as if Sam is oblivious to their relationship. He’s witnessed them kiss, indulge in PDA, and even get a little carried away too many times to count. But getting caught like this, with Cas still buried deep inside him, is the one line Dean hoped they would never cross.

“Oh no,” Sam says, his voice as thin as if he was about to faint.

Cas hiccups again, his hips twitching, and Dean does his best to stifle a moan. Even though Sam brought this on himself by barging in without invitation, he doesn’t deserve the nightmares. Dean wouldn’t want to hear his brother’s sex noises either.

“The sock rule, man, what the hell,” he says, pressing closer to Cas in a fruitless effort to minimize the amount of naked skin on display.

“We didn’t put on a sock,” Cas corrects him. “We were… in a hurry.”

“You were, Mr. Lamp Breaker.”

At that, Sam’s expression goes from disturbed to properly scandalized.

“You couldn’t have taken two goddamn minutes to clean up the mess you made while trying to get in each other’s pants? I thought something bad happened. There was blood, too.”

Dean bites his lip and looks back at Cas, only to see the same guilt he feels reflected in his eyes.

“I cut myself on a sliver of glass,” Cas explains, lifting his hand to show it to Sam. Dean looks at it too, and tries not to feel like shit about it. “We were— _hic_!— in the heat of the moment” Cas continues. “I’m sorry you were worried, Sam.”

Dean doesn’t offer his own apology, because Sam is always more prone to forgive if it’s Cas who asks, with those big blue eyes and a note of unquestionable sincerity in his voice.

Sure enough, Sam’s face softens a little around the edges, and he sighs, rubbing his palm over his cheek.

“It’s fine, just— next time, please leave a note or something. I thought… no, you know what, I can’t do this. We’ll talk once you’re done doing…” He stutters, his eyes suddenly darting around the room. “…this,” he finishes with a resigned, vague wave of his hand. “Oh my God. I’m leaving.”

And then he does just that, bolting out the door before Dean or Cas can say anything else. Sam is one of the most fearless hunters Dean’s ever met, and seeing him scurry away like a spooked gazelle is a rare treat. Dean can hardly be blamed for doubling over and giving a loud, hearty laugh that only dies down when Cas hiccups yet again.

“Shit,” Dean gasps. “This is givin’ me whiplash.”

Cas shifts beneath him.

“We can stop, if you want,” he offers.

“What? No, man, no way in hell. I don’t care if you hiccup your way through this. I don’t care if all the lamps in this bunker break. I don’t care if the sky splits open and Chuck descends from it to stop us. We—” He pushes Cas flat on his back and intertwines their fingers. “—are finishing this.”

Cas looks up at him with a smile, his eyes shining.

“I’m glad.”

It shouldn’t work. With anyone else, it just shouldn’t. Dean was willing to overlook the lamp, and Cas was willing to overlook the cut on his hand, but the hiccups, and then Sam? It would be too much for anyone. And yet, they’re simply too stubborn.

If they had the presence of mind, they would probably pause to reflect on how insubstantial all those hindrances seem in view of what they’ve already overcome for each other. Maybe they’d laugh or scoff at the idea of something as insignificant as a broken lamp or the hiccups getting in their way when even Heaven and Hell couldn’t. Maybe they still will, once the burning need has simmered down to a low, more manageable undercurrent. For now, Dean leans down to press his mouth into the side of Cas’s neck, biting gently at the soft skin there while the two of them wait for Cas’s hiccups to subside.

Each time Cas jostles them, it unleashes a short, almost violent chain of events. Dean’s teeth scrape harder against Cas’s neck, and Cas moans; Cas’s hips jerk upwards, and Dean moans; they hear each other’s pleasure, and they only want more of it.

It's not that bad, actually. The way Dean sees it, it might even be a tiny bit hot.

It's also possible they're just used to making the very best of inopportune circumstances.


End file.
